The hotel and the hooker (or was she?)

It was 11 p.m. at the hotel lounge along Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. A woman draped in sleek, silky blacks, accented with a refulgent orange scarf approaches the bar a few seats down from where I’m sitting, and asks for a glass of pinot grigio. As the bartender fixes her drink, she turns and smiles at me, says ‘hi,’ and I reply, “you’re a prostitute aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, but a testament to my own social retardation. She let out an incredulous gasp and stormed off, drink in hand. I was still nursing my first drink, but the bartender said I’d had enough.